There wasn't anything he could really say that summed up everything neatly. He knew Randall wouldn't expect to see him again, and wouldn't believe him even if Victor tried to say otherwise. He also knew Randall didn't think he could be with him, not right then. But Victor couldn't bring himself to let go, even if he did have many things he needed to sort out before he saw Randall again.

So he left his good-bye silent and reluctantly pulled away from Randall. Victor said to all of them, "Have a safe flight."

Randall was looking at the ground, feet shuffling side to side. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words escaped him. Randall finally nodded, giving Victor a brief smile and turning back toward his brothers. As Randall moved to help Edwin finish gathering all their things, Victor saw him grab his backpack and murmur to Edwin, "Hey, I forgot something. Be right back."

"What did you forget?" Anthony said. "I can go back and get it."

"It's fine," Randall a.s.sured him, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "It'll take me two minutes. Wait for me?"

Anthony clapped Randall on the back, and Victor tried not to watch Randall go. It wouldn't do to be creepy and stare. He looked away and stood by while the wolves and Jed strapped on the last of their bags, luggage and cat carrier in hand. Victor didn't want to be rude and leave, so he stayed, half listening to the idle chatter in the group as they discussed what it was like to fly on an airplane.

As much as Victor had come to enjoy their company, he thought that a few days on his own might do him some good. The wolves here respected his need for privacy, and perhaps the fresh air of the mountains would help to put some things in perspective.

By the time everyone was ready to start their hike, two members of the pack going with the group to drive the van back after dropping them all off, Randall had come running back, gaze studiously avoiding Victor's. And then there was nothing left to do but give one last round of good-byes and watch as they headed out, disappearing among the trees. A few members of the pack ran with them, all of them howling their good-byes until, at last, there was no trace of them remaining.

Victor spent the rest of the day in relative solitude, emerging from his tent only to eat dinner, after which he took a walk around the perimeter of the camp. He'd never been one to enjoy nature walks, but he'd decided to try one on a whim to see if he'd started enjoying it. He hadn't. He still hated insects and stray rocks that he tripped over.

He forced himself to sit down and read the medusa half blood accounts, finally making it to the very end of them. Most stopped suddenly, indicating that they hadn't continued to keep the journal after they had lost their minds. Some had attempted to continue writing, though their efforts had resulted in incoherent ramblings.

There was no way to tell if there was a pattern, since most of them stopped. It gave Victor no clues as to who their last visions had been for, and without that, forming a pattern would be impossible.

He put the last journal down with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Victor uncurled from the cross-legged position he'd been reading in. When his knee brushed against his pillow, it hit against something hard. There was a book underneath it.

Mittelalterliche Liste gefhrlicher und unerkennbarer Bestien. The medieval index that Randall had been reading in the van on the way here.

Victor picked it up and opened the cover. It was obviously well cared for, and on the front leaf was a neat, childish scrawl. Randall Lewis, 7, and then some very carefully printed beginner's German. Das ist mein Buch. This is my book.

As Victor flipped through the book, a page of notepaper dropped out. It had been marking the section of Canos lore. Victor picked it up and found Randall's script, messier but now somehow much more graceful than his seven-year-old self.

Victor, it started, his name in careful loops. I want to start out by saying thank you. Thank you for finding me. Thank you for being kind enough to stop and speak with me in the Cairo hospital. Thank you for being the one good thing out of my nightmare. I called you my Beatrice, and that is very true, but I think more than that you are also my Virgil. You have been a light during a time when I have found it very hard to see forward.

I know that this is good-bye. I know that the ending is not what I would have wished. But I just wanted to tell you that even if I had known, if I had looked into your eyes and seen this moment, I would have fallen for you anyway. Because you were something wonderful.

Thank you, for what you gave me, for the memories I now have. I feel a little bit like a medusa myself, I think. I have a part of you that will always be with me.

I hope you enjoy the book. It was one of my first in German, and it has been a favorite. And now we are even, at least so far on the book front. I don't think I'll ever be able to thank you enough for the rest.

I will miss you, my (for a little while, at least) medusa.

Randall Lewis But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are, how happy you make those.

So true a fool is love, that in your will, Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

Victor found he was smiling as he reached the end of the note, though it was a bittersweet expression. So, Randall truly thought it was over. That shouldn't hurt as much as it did. Victor had half known it already, and Randall had enough reason to want it to be over.

He had hoped that Randall might consider giving him another chance, but with what Randall was currently going through with his family, Victor knew he already had a lot on his mind. He was stressed, exhausted, and worried. The last thing he needed was a medusa with self-destructive tendencies.

Still, it wasn't completely over. Victor just hoped that Randall would perhaps be willing to consider what they could have together if Victor could figure out the mess that was his mind. So he would simply have to do that.

Unfortunately, sorting out one's mind wasn't as clear a mission as, say, doing the dishes. There was an objective but no obvious steps, and it wasn't something that could be done halfheartedly or forced. He couldn't hurry the process along, and he couldn't tidy the metaphorical dishes into the sink and pretend they were done.

Victor folded up the note and tucked it into his pocket. He didn't want to lose it.

He slept uneasily that night. Too many thoughts swirled around his mind, too many what-ifs and doubts. Every time he woke up, he spent half an hour lost in his contemplation again before managing to fall back asleep.

By the time morning came, Victor was so thoroughly grumpy he seriously considered the idea of attempting to sleep through the day. That, however, would not be possible with rowdy wolves constantly running past the tents and shouting to one another across the camp. He reluctantly got up, got himself dressed, and ended up nursing a mug of tea at a makeshift table near the campfires.

Further pursuing the medusa journals wasn't helping, and Victor was starting to get frustrated. Randall had theorized that his character flaw was linked to his blood, but while Victor saw the logic in that, he simply didn't have a clue how to fix it. He was well aware of the medusa love of knowledge, but it wasn't that, specifically.

He had his head in his hands in frustration when he felt someone sit next to him.

"Deep in thought?" The Gray Lady's smooth tone washed over him.

Victor didn't want to dismiss her, because he did respect her-even more after he'd seen her life and her future-but he didn't particularly want to speak to anyone. "One could say that," he sighed.

"You're not the first medusa I've known in my lifetime," she said. "I knew your distant ancestors, those who would hollow out the ones who dared meet their eyes. The bloodline has weakened, but the effects of the visions on the medusa are still the same."

It occurred to Victor then that the Gray Lady had the potential to be even more useful than the medusa journals, as she might have seen a pattern in their lapse of sanity. Before he could ask, she continued speaking.

"I know you have looked into Randall Lewis's eyes. But have you done that before? Have you looked into someone that you were involved with?"

That was an odd question, Victor felt. "Twice. I didn't love him, but I did very much like him. Before that the eyes I met belonged to people on the streets, casual acquaintances, people I barely knew."

She gave a thoughtful hum, studying him over the cup of tea she sipped at. "And did you realize that medusas tend to hold on longer to the visions of those they care for?"

"I didn't know that." He only glanced very quickly at her, unwilling to risk even getting close to looking into her eyes again. What she said held... interesting ramifications. Victor was so tired he didn't want to think about it right then, but he supposed he had to. "The last person I cared for was a vampire. I looked into his eyes twice."

The Gray Lady grimaced. "That must have been unpleasant."

It hadn't been. Victor had very much enjoyed looking into David's eyes. "I wouldn't say that."

"To feel that bloodl.u.s.t, that cycle of craving blood and pain?" She shook her head. "As a wolf I cannot imagine anything worse. We are bound by the moon, but we are not forced to obey it. Vampires are destructive, obsessed creatures."

"It's hardly their fault," Victor protested. "They don't ask to be a slave to that. I'm sorry, but all you have to do is run around on the full moon. They have to drink blood from the living to even stay alive, when they were once victims themselves. d.a.m.ning them for their instincts and necessities is not fair."

The Gray Lady's expression tightened, but she didn't reply right away. She and Victor sat in silence for a while, each drinking their own tea and watching the comings and goings of the pack. Victor began to feel that perhaps he'd been a bit too blunt, and he wanted to apologize, but he personally felt he had nothing to apologize for. So many people hated vampires and forgot that they had perhaps the rawest deal of all in the supernatural community.

Instead, he said, "Randall told me that I was self-destructive." Why he was telling her this, he wasn't sure. Maybe he just needed someone to speak to, much like the night at the bar when he'd met Dylan. "I have no idea how to fix it. I don't even know why I have that tendency."

She smiled. "You looked into the eyes of a vampire and now wonder why you crave a hurtful cycle of pain?"

"I was already looking for, er, adventure, so to speak." Victor shook his head. "I doubt it's related."

"Can you honestly tell me that you would have looked into the eyes of an immortal back then, though?" Out of the corner of his eye, Victor could see the Gray Lady looking at him. "I heard your conversation with Randall outside my house. He was right; you had every chance of losing your mind."

Victor let out a slow exhale. "No," he admitted. "I wouldn't have."

When he'd met David, all he'd been looking for was anything that wasn't a life of boredom. He had asked to look into David's eyes a month after being with him-Victor had dated before, but they had been humans, and therefore relatively easy to understand. David had been much more complex, and Victor had wanted to truly know him.

After that, he had started offering David his blood. He'd thought at the time that the two events had not been connected. Then he'd traveled to Cairo with him, into a situation he'd known full well was dangerous. He and David had broken up, but Victor had still traveled with a van full of wolves and an unstable mercenary to go see a wolf pack. And then he'd looked into the eyes of an immortal.

"d.a.m.n it," Victor cursed lowly.

She was right. Randall was right.

"You wouldn't happen to know if there's any way to stop feeling so close to someone's memories, would you?" he tried.

The Gray Lady had a touch of regret in her expression. "I do not. I may have known medusas, but none very closely. That is something you are going to have to discover for yourself."

"I'm surprised you're helping me," Victor had to point out. "I'm doing this so that I can be with a wolf. I thought you didn't approve of such pairings."

"I don't," she said simply. "But there is one thing I have learned with the activities of your group of friends. You are going to attempt to be with that wolf no matter what I say. I may as well help fix you so that you at least don't make him completely miserable."

"Thank you," Victor said dryly. "I'm touched."

The Gray Lady stood, looking down at him. "Then go help yourself, Victor. Make your own memories and try not to dwell on mine. I will be remaining in contact with you."

Victor blinked at her in surprise. "Why? You clearly don't like me. That's completely understandable, but you hardly need to call me up every once in a while."

"You have my memories." She narrowed her eyes at Victor. One long, graceful finger nudged gently at his temple. "There are a lot of people that want to know what I know. Now that you have that information, you would be considered the easier access point for that knowledge."

"Oh. Right, then." Victor really didn't like the sound of that, but there was nothing to be done about it. He couldn't exactly purge the memories from his mind.

"And, Victor? Don't go spreading around what you saw about the future." With that, the Gray Lady left, her retreat as silent and regal as her appearance.

Unfortunately, she had just left Victor with yet more things to think about.

VICTOR SPENT two more days at the camp before he went home. The wolf children had been glad to hear the end of the story and sad to see him go. He'd gotten enthusiastic good-bye hugs from a few of the wolves, even though they barely knew him.

The pack needed the van far more than Victor did, so he enlisted the help of Mallory to drive him to the airport. The flight was awful, as usual, and Victor spent the whole time drinking as much red wine as he could to be able to deal with the turbulence. No more drinking to excess was a wonderful thought, when both of his feet were on the ground. Horrid flights demanded alcohol. Baggage was a nightmare, though at least getting a taxi didn't require too much waiting.

He arrived home with much relief.

Victor lived two blocks from the college he taught at. The area was the nicest in the city, full of old mansions and modern townhouses. Victor's house wasn't a house. It was a two-wing mansion complete with gardens, a groundskeeper's house at the far edge of the lawn, and tasteful dark wood mixed with light stone.

The house had been in his father's family for six generations now. It was stuffy and drab, dusty in corners Victor never bothered to go into, with floors that creaked and groaned from age. He'd hated coming here on holidays from boarding school, and he had hated it even more when it was pa.s.sed down to him after his parents' pa.s.sing.

What was he supposed to do with all this room? Even when his grandmother had been alive, the place had hardly been filled with light or cheer. No, it was stodgy with Rathbone tradition seeped into every plank and board. They'd visited here once a year while Victor had been growing up. When he'd been off to school, his grandmother had pa.s.sed, his grandfather had slowly curled in on himself as the madness took hold, and his parents had moved overseas to care for them.

Then the house had been the thing looming during every break. He'd sat in the library and read; he'd haunted the rooms, promising himself he'd never be stuck there.

And yet, here he was. The last of the Rathbones in the great, rattling Rathbone manor.

To be honest, he still loathed the place, though not quite as pa.s.sionately. These days he just hated that he only regularly used about five rooms when there were forty-one of the d.a.m.n things, and he had to bring in maids every month to keep it in shape.

The rooms he didn't use were mostly kept closed off, the furniture covered in protective sheets. The paintings were similarly covered, and all the antiques were locked away in dust-proof cabinets. Every day, Victor walked down the hallway that was filled with portraits of his family line, and every day he winced at the fact that he would be the last of the bloodline. He had no interest in having biological children. More to the point, the opposite s.e.x held no appeal for him at all.

But now, as he walked through the empty halls and looked into long-disused rooms, Victor began seeing use in them.

He had offered the Lewises a place to stay. It was close to the best hospital in the state, and it would mean they wouldn't have to worry about household bills. Victor looked at a room that overlooked the gardens, the lawn stretching to a small wooded area at the base of the hills, and thought that Edwin would like this s.p.a.ce. He poked around a room with high ceilings and a worktable that had once been used for carving wooden sculptures. Perhaps Anthony would like this one, given how much he liked working with his hands.

He saw the potential for Randall to fit into his own room. Victor didn't even use half the cupboard s.p.a.ce; there was more than enough room for Randall. Victor thought he might like the antique furnishings and the small shelf of books Victor kept close at hand.

Victor sat on the edge of his bed and wondered if he should invite the Lewises once more. Randall hadn't reacted well to it, and in retrospect Victor could see how a wolf would understand that offer, especially a wolf who was trying to adjust to becoming the head of the family amidst his brother's illness.

Even as he thought that, he walked into the next room and started taking the sheets off the furniture. Victor retreated at the clouds of dust he brought up, sneezing violently and cursing himself for forgetting to call the maids in while he'd been away.

He retreated into his bedroom, scowling and rubbing his nose. Victor typically kept his room tidy, but there were a few photographs scattered over the top of a chest of drawers that caught his eye. They were photos he'd taken in Cairo. He'd gotten physical copies printed of some, since he preferred it that way, and he hadn't really looked at them since he'd picked them up in the tiny Cairo photo shop. Most of them were just images of the sights Victor had seen, the pyramids, the streets around the hotel.

One of them was of David.

Victor carefully picked up the photo. He had asked David if he could take a photograph of him staring directly into the camera lens-David had snorted a bit and called him daft, but he had done it. Later, Victor had looked at the photo on his camera screen, finally able to gaze into someone's eyes without fearing for his sanity.

He looked at it again now, studying the deep brown of David's eyes. And he was surprised to feel only the smallest twinges of emotion. Victor still missed David, but somewhere along the line he'd stopped wanting to be with someone like him. He just missed him because he honestly liked him and wanted to remain in touch. The last he'd heard of David, unfortunately, he was off in parts unknown. He hoped David was safe.

His and David's relationship had ultimately been too destructive for both of them. David had been addicted, and Victor had only made that addiction worse. Now Victor understood why he had been stuck in the cycle of self-destruction so strongly after David was gone.

Victor smiled faintly as he smoothed a finger over the photo. Now that he understood, he could overcome. It was time to put David's memories aside as best he could and move David himself into the category of friend more than ex. He opened the top drawer and put the photos on top of scattered old Christmas cards and other photos. Memories, all of them, that he now had to put in the past so he could focus on the present.

He wanted to help the Lewises. He wanted to be with Randall.

And maybe, if he was lucky, he could show Randall he could be a good partner.

Chapter 18.

Randall IN THE month since they'd come home, Randall really would have thought things would be... easier, somehow. That he would have figured out some kind of routine or solution. He'd gotten two jobs fairly quickly, working days at the library shelving books and evenings bagging groceries at the local supermarket. Edwin swept floors with a janitorial service at night, and, together, they were trying desperately to make ends meet.

It just wasn't working.

Anthony had tried to go back to his job as a mechanic. Before his illness, that was what his trade had been, and he'd been confident he could do it again in between treatments. Except he'd been let go after a week because he kept dropping equipment. He simply didn't have the strength in his hands anymore to work long days. Randall had shrugged it off. Edwin had gone out during the times when Anthony was napping to find cans and recyclables to turn in for cash. They told Anthony they could easily make up the wages. It was a lie. Randall was pretty sure they all knew that, but they smiled and nodded anyway.

Exhausted, Randall pulled up to the cabin, still wearing the stupid green ap.r.o.n from the grocery store. He hated it. He hated that he wore a name badge, he hated that it was mindless, brainless work and yet when he got home, he was so tired he could barely function, much less read. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done anything except work and take care of Anthony.

Most of all, though, Randall hated that he hated it. Anthony had given up his entire life, his whole childhood, to take care of them. To even have a moment of resentment seemed so selfish, Randall didn't want to think about it.

He plodded up the steps, rifling through the mail he'd picked up in town. Bills. A lot of them. Inside the cabin, he could hear Edwin and Anthony talking; he could smell dinner cooking. Sinking down to sit on the steps, Randall started opening the mail, reading them all by the porch light.

Past Due.

Final Notice.